From the blog archives 2014.

The dainty elegance of her white organdie,

the bouquets in the vases, like ladies who are careful not to touch

the alien color of the white tablecloth ,

and everything sacrosanct,

towards everything else untouchable;

the party goes on into the night.

She smiles, a vivacious, conquering, winning smile

and everything pales, lacklustre,

as she glides like a swan on the wings of intoxication.

Painfully, excruciatingly close

to the night of passion,

she fights the tears, hides behind the facade

of peals of laughter that open and close.

In the moments between the laughter ceasing,

and the sneaking in of silence when her mask falls,

he catches a glimpse of the shadow,

falling between the conquest and defeat,

and that is the moment for the wolf.

And a silent witness in another corner across the room

watches the precursors playing a perilous game and on her face quickly reads

the fugitive marks of lament

for the buds not opening and dying in the seed .

By Sushama Karnik.